


You Put the Fun in Funnel Cake

by zigostia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Carnival, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-10 11:42:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12911208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigostia/pseuds/zigostia
Summary: When John drags Sherlock out to a carnival, he's in for more than he expected. No, there isn't a murder—that would be easier to understand.John can't seem to figure out if it's him or Sherlock who is completely clueless.





	You Put the Fun in Funnel Cake

With all the cases and experiments, all the smoking and target practise in the living room, the days and days of whatever goes on in that mind palace of his—you’d think, you’d really think, that Sherlock Holmes was a very busy man indeed.

And yet, even with the countless hours of violin twanging and screeching and the occasional jaw-dropping composition, the bursts of ambition over strange, oddly-specific hobbies (like that one day he spent solely on perfecting the french macaron, fussing over ratios and the amount of folds and the resting time and whatnot), Sherlock somehow managed to make room in his erratic, non-existent schedule, for boredom.

 _“Bored!”_ Sherlock spat for the thirty-third time. Yes, John was counting.

“Really,” John said, and raised his cup of tea.

With a flip of his dressing gown and a snarled bundle of incomprehensible words, Sherlock draped himself across his chair.

“Bored,” he said, sing-song. “Bored, bored, boredboredbored—”

“If you say bored one more time I’m getting out the board games.”

Turning his head to John, Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Was that a pun?”

John paused. “No. But nice job noticing.”

Sherlock sighed, a great, heaving sigh that went on for a good five seconds, and turned his back to John. For a moment, John thought about maintaining the almost-peaceful silence that had settled into the room.

“You know,” he accidentally said out loud, “those board games would’ve worked if we played by the rules.”

“Ha! The rules are wrong.”

With blasé resignation, John went back to the paper.

The article _(Man Addicted to Marmite)_ proved to be absolute bollocks, and it was only a few minutes after that Sherlock groaned and sprung up from his seat.

“Bored!”

“Twister?” John suggested, not looking up.

“Twister’s not a board game,” Sherlock snapped.

“Oh?”

“Board game: a tabletop game that involves counters or pieces moved or placed on a pre-marked surface or ‘board’ according to a set of rules. Twister is a ground level game that involves players placing their appendages on various circles of different colours determined by a spinner.”

John looked up. “Appendages?”

“Hands and feet, John, you know what I mean.”

John turned a page in his paper that he wasn’t paying attention to anymore. “Knowing the exact definition of a board game is more important than common curtsies?”

“I don’t need common curtsies; you’re the nice one.” Sherlock paced back and forth and vaguely waved a hand. “And I can delete the board game definition now that I’ve used it.”

The tea was tepid. Thoughtfully, John looked at the dregs of loose leaf drifting at the bottom of the mug.

“So you knew there would be this exact conversation, and you memorised the definition for a board game just to disprove my statement of Twister being one?”

“Obviously.”

“You know, you can just say _yes_ and it would suffice.”

“But it is obvious,” Sherlock said, as if it were obvious.

The paper was folded and put down onto the desk. Seemingly not to notice or not to mind, Sherlock ignored John. Continuing his pace to-and-fro, he wrung his hands and then waved them through the air, wild gestures and wriggling fingers.

“Oh, John, everything’s so dull, bland, threadbare, where have all the murderers gone?”

“Mm,” said John.

“My mind is racing and running in circles, this monotony is intolerable!”

“Mhm.”

_“Johnnn.”_

John cast his eyes to the ceiling and closed them. How could this man, this brilliant genius, be such a _toddler?_

“You’re the smart one,” he said. “Think of something.”

Sherlock fell into a silence and John savoured the blissful moment for about half a second before it was shattered.

“John,” Sherlock said with an unnecessary urgency, “come catch frogs with me.”

It was peculiar: Mrs. Hudson allowed human skin in the crisper drawer (“the humidity level is critical, John, just leave the tomatoes on the counter—what? Oh, don’t be boring, the mould can be inspected”) and endured, practically enjoyed, violin at ungodly hours (after a series of midnight events that led to a soundproofed wall the next day, three am concerts were almost routine), but she walked in once to see that John had bought two pairs of frog legs in hopes of wooing a girl from France, and the landlady had nearly fainted on the spot.

Later, as John uselessly scrubbed at a pan of blackened frog legs, Sherlock had informed John of Mrs. Hudson’s ranidaphobia. (Sherlock also told John that he had used powdered magnesium instead of salt, which would’ve been greatly appreciated if he had been told this an hour ago.)

“I don’t think Mrs. Hudson would appreciate you bringing in live frogs,” John summed up.

“She won’t see them,” Sherlock said, and then added: “Well, she won’t recognise them as frogs.”

John leaned back in this chair, crossing his legs. “Will I be disgusted by what you’re planning to do to them?”

The question was useless, really. Like if John had asked if Sherlock would be doing anything to the frogs that involved frogs.

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back. “Snails, then,” he suggested.

“Why?”

“To study the compatibleness of different spices on escargot. Perhaps that would bring the Parisian girl back.”

“No to both.” The girl had made it clear in her text afterwards. Google translate had been rather merciless. (On the bright side, John now had an expansive vocabulary of french profanity.)

Another short-lived silence.

Sherlock said, bluntly, almost like a challenge, “Fine, get me my revolver.”

“No,” John said, using the tone of voice he normally reserved for the more drastic circumstances.

“I’ll do your initials,” Sherlock offered.

“No,” John said, just as firm but a touch perplexed.

Sherlock huffed and tumbled back into his chair.

John took a good look at him, crossed arms and pouting lips, and wondered what it would be like to have a normal flatmate, best friend, whatever. It must be very boring, he thought, and smiled.

“Know what,” he said. “I was thinking we could go to the fair.” _Biggest in London,_ the paper had proclaimed. Apparently they just kept getting bigger.

Sherlock scoffed. He bounced his leg up and down, up and down. He tapped his fingers against the arm of the chair: B-O-R-E-D. “Flashy, overrated, ridiculously try-hard.”

“Oh, we’re talking about you, now?”

Sherlock somehow gave John a side-eye while facing him full-on. “Scamming parents into buying little paper slips and making their children go down a two-feet inflatable ramp, deep-frying everything and anything edible and giving it an atrocious price, hour-long queues for overused rides with forged safety standard forms?”

“Sounds great,” John said. “Let’s go.”

Sherlock’s gaze turned even more baleful. John sighed, and leaned forwards in his chair. He probably didn’t have to. Hell, Sherlock probably knew before John knew—but he made sure the concern in his eyes came through loud and clear.

“You’ve done nothing but work for the past month. You haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since God-knows-when, you barely eat unless I make you, and although you do seem to have fun at crime scenes I don’t think that’s a habit I should encourage. Come to the fair with me—you’ll enjoy it.” Sherlock’s lip curled, and John compensated, “It’ll be better than saying _bored_ forty-one times in a row.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“I counted the morse code," John said.

“Non-verbal, that shouldn’t count.”

“Actions speak louder than words.”

“That’s not relevant and you know it,” Sherlock muttered, and got up from his chair. John smiled.

“So you’re coming?”

Sherlock glared like a petulant teenager.

“Oh, come on.” John walked to the coat stand and grabbed his jacket. “Maybe if we’re lucky there’ll be a murder.” He probably shouldn’t joke about that, but Sherlock did things to him. Now, good or bad, he wasn't quite sure.

As John worked out the buttons on his jacket, Sherlock stayed where he stood, unspeaking. Then:

“Fair enough,” he said.

John squinted. “Was that a pun?”

-+-+-+-

John caught Sherlock walking to the beat of some mainstream radio song, tapping the rhythm against his leg.

“Didn’t know you were a fan.”

“It’s purposefully andante just for that reason.” Sherlock scowled, clenched his hand shut, and sped up. John almost regretted speaking as he broke into a joggish walk.

As they headed into the heart of the carnival, the music became louder, blending with the fizz of deep-fryers and the screams and shrieks of children.

The queue for the ticket booth had somehow managed to wrap around the entire stand, snake over to the ice cream truck, and zigzag back again.

Turning to Sherlock with a pacifying comment on his lips, John’s words came to the tip of his tongue before drifting off into nothingness.

John swivelled his head, searching for a tall, dark-haired figure who had somehow disappeared in the half-second John took his eyes off him. “Sherlock!” he called out half-heartedly.

His elbow dipped into an ice cream cone. Muttering a curse, he escaped to a relatively clear space beside a food truck, where he leaned against the rumbling engine and wondered why he had suggested this in the first place.

He was just about to pull out his phone when a voice said, “John,” from right behind him.

“Jesus!” John jumped and spun around.

Sherlock was standing less than a feet away. He tilted his head. “Not quite.”

Shaking his head, John laughed. “Where did you go?”

In response, Sherlock held out a hand. In it was a pile of red tickets.

“I just saved us fifteen minutes in the sun,” Sherlock said with a glimmer of what was almost satisfaction.

Plucking a ticket from Sherlock’s hand, John studied it, and then Sherlock, dubiously. “Do I want to know how you got these?”

“The wife took their daughter home after she threw up, which left the husband with fifteen leftover tickets.”

John didn’t say anything, just looked at Sherlock with raised eyebrows.

“There was a woman carrying a young girl on our way here, with traces of vomit on the girl’s shirt and the woman’s sleeve. The man at the ticket booth—the girl had some hereditary traits from him, eyes and nose—he had the same vomit on his collar, as well as a matching ring with the woman. He had multiple tickets in his hand but wasn’t using them; he was hoping to get a refund.”

John looked at the tickets and then back to Sherlock, and then said, “Brilliant.”

Sherlock’s eyes softened, so subtly that no one but John would even notice.

“How’d you get him to give them to you?” John said.

“I told him the piston for the duck hunt game was specifically designed to hit an inch lower than its supposed aim. He’ll bring a stuffed toy home for his daughter.” He grabbed some tickets and held them out to John. “Seven each for us.”

“Huh.” John took the tickets and tucked them in his pocket. “That’s surprisingly alright.”

“It would’ve been if it was true. I told him his wife was having an affair with his brother and the daughter was theirs.”

A beat.

Sherlock’s face spread into a smile. “Almost got you.”

“Almost.” John sighed and looked away, trying to hide his grin. “Rollercoaster?”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “I don’t understand the pleasure in being uncomfortably strapped into a hot plastic seat with dozens of screaming children.”

John hummed like a patient preschool teacher. “You never even tried it before.”

“I never saw a reason.”

“Not everything needs a reason, Sherlock. You can do it for fun.”

“That is a reason.”

John opened his mouth and then closed it. Sherlock smirked.

“Well,” John tried again, “maybe that is the reason.”

“Mm. Nope.”

“No?” John gave Sherlock a sideways smile, purposefully challenging. “Are you scared?”

The noise Sherlock made was so incredulous that John couldn’t help but laugh.

"Come on, you git." John headed towards the rollercoaster ride.

For once, Sherlock’s long dark coat was not just for dramatics. Summer had gradually lessened its hold on London, surrendering to the brisk air of autumn. As John watched the queue slowly shuffle forward, he was reminded of his teenage years, heading to the fair like clockwork every summer break, going straight for the most extreme rides.

No one made him do that, John remembered—he dared himself, craved it, the thrill, the adrenaline rush.

And then he had gone off to Afghanistan. And now he was living with Sherlock.

John giggled under his breath.

“What?”

John crossed his arms. “This is ridiculous.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“Yeah.” John leaned against the pole of the barrier that separated the queue. “Not just this. Everything. But it’s all normal for you, though, innit?”

Sherlock smiled. “Normal is a rather subjective term.”

“Still, I don’t think any of what we do defines as _normal_ to anyone.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Normal is boring,” he concluded.

When they finally reached the front of the lines, Sherlock handed over his tickets and John followed suit, and they sat down into the (predictably) uncomfortable plastic seats.

As a worker secured and fastened harnesses, the speakers above their heads squeaked.

“Please keep all hands and feet inside the carriage at all times,” said a pleasant female voice. “Hold on tight, and enjoy your five seconds of freefall!”

The car began to move and John felt his stomach twist and tingle, not unpleasantly; the strange fluttery feeling that reminded him of butterflies.

He looked over to Sherlock. “Ready?”

Sherlock looked back and nodded. As they slowly tilted back and the carriages began to ascend, a smile began to form on Sherlock’s face, one that he didn’t seem aware of. He reflected the sunlight in his eyes.

John felt that odd flutter in his stomach again. He turned his eyes to the front, where some kid was screaming already.

It was like he was thirteen again, feeling like he was going to puke, but completely doused with adrenaline and excitement. John slowly uncurled his fingers from the bar and lifted them in the air. His hands were completely still.

It was colder up here. The wind cupped his face in its cool hands. The tops of tents had tiny fluttering flags, and the people were minuscule dots.

John looked to Sherlock again, the wind ruffling his dark curly hair, the collar of his coat curled up. His hands were up high, his and John’s together.

Somewhere out in the front came a loud, drawn-out, “FUCK!”

The car tethered on the edge, hovered for a millisecond.

John’s stomach dropped, his ears popped, he was dimly aware of shrieks and laughter from around him through the whoosh of the air that slipped through his fingers like something tangible, like he could grab it and hold it in his hands. The force of the wind knocked the breath out of him, but he was laughing, breathless, filled with instantaneous joy.

The carriages straightened, came back to a parallel with the ground, and then turned so sharply John nearly fell out of the seat, the seat belt digging into his side as they made their way to the parking lot, where children exiting cars pointed at them, upside down.

John turned his head to the left. “Got your reason?” he shouted.

Sherlock tilted his face up so that the wind flipped his hair back from his forehead. He said something that John couldn’t make out through the symphony of rumbling tracks and whistling wind, kids giggling and yelling.

John pointed to his ear and shook his head, opening his mouth but, instead of words, letting out a shriek as he was suddenly turned upside down.

Later, after what seemed like a blink of an eye, as they were returning into the station, the cars slowing, Sherlock leaned over and murmured in John’s ear.

“Still not as enjoyable as a criminal chase.”

They looked at each other and grinned.

-+-+-+-

John tripped over a particularly off-putting pile of air and nearly fell over, his legs feeling like the jelly Sherlock had made a week ago with human-bone-derived gelatine. (He found this out after eating half a plate. It was one of the most disturbing realisations he had ever come to, and that was saying a lot.)

“Think I might be getting a bit too old,” he said, trying to concentrate on moving without falling over.

“Nonsense,” said Sherlock, who was walking slower than normal—but he would never admit it. “That was less exertion than most of anything we’ve done.”

“I can’t seem to decide if that’s a good thing.” John smiled ruefully. “Well. What next?”

Sherlock shrugged. John looked around.

“Street performance?”

“Nope,” Sherlock said, clicking the _p._

“Fortune telling?” John tilted his head to a glittery purple tent.

In hindsight, he didn’t even know why he bothered suggesting that.

“Ferris Wheel? Could be a nice view.”

“Boring. I know at least half a dozen places with a better view of London than the best on that abhorrent excuse of an attraction.”

“And are any of them legal to be at?”

Sherlock grinned, and John sighed.

“We could go home,” John said.

Sherlock didn’t reply.

John looked over to see him with a look in his eyes that could only be described as utter astonishment.

John followed Sherlock’s gaze, and soon the same expression made itself onto his face as well.

John blinked, his eyes struggling to comprehend the sight of Mycroft Holmes, who navigated through the crowds with a specific Detective Inspector by his side.

Wordlessly, Sherlock headed for his brother at a speed just slightly slower than that of him chasing a criminal.

“Sherlock…” John said uselessly.

Sherlock weaved through the hoard of people, stepping over spilled ice cream cones and popsicles, keeping his eyes fixed on his older brother—and, by the way people immediately parted for him, still with that frankly terrifying look in his eyes.

Following the mess of black curls that stuck up from the others, John knocked over some kid’s candy floss and muttered an apology, craning his neck and cursing under his breath.

He nearly stumbled right into Sherlock, stopping an inch short of bumping into him.

“Next time you decide to go off,” John hissed, “warn me, yeah?”

Sherlock glanced at John, the corner of his lips turning up just a bit. “Right.”

John sighed. “Well?”

Sherlock gaze turned to the two other men in a line. John barely kept his mouth from falling open.

Sherlock was beaming. It looked like he was going to start dancing. “This is one of the best ideas you’ve ever had,” he said to John.

What John was about to say next was cut off by a tinkling bell, as the heart-shaped door slowly opened to reveal a dozen rows of seats, floating atop a narrow river. It was slightly ironic that the door now resembled a broken heart, but before John could comment on this Sherlock had grabbed him by the wrist and was pulling him to the line.

“Come and ride the Love Boat,” a man muttered. He looked like he’d rather be dead. “Four tickets per couple.”

John stumbled. “Wait.”

Sherlock gave him a baleful look and loosened his grip on John’s wrist slightly, but still hanging on, persistent. _“Mycroft,”_ he said, “is going on a love ride with Lestrade. Is this something you wish to miss?”

John wanted to laugh, because whatever Sherlock was thinking, it was certainly not correct. He didn’t know why he was so reluctant; they were just following in order to spy on the two others, it wasn’t like it meant anything. _Well, at least not to Sherlock,_ John thought, and then stopped that train of thought before it could venture any farther.

John’s feet must have moved without him telling them too, because in a moment he found himself at the back of the steadily moving line, and behind two familiar figures.

“I told you,” Mycroft said without turning.

“Greg,” John said quietly, not bothering to hide the laughter from his voice. Lestrade turned, his eyes widening as he gawped.

Still not deigning to turn his head, Mycroft sighed. “Dear brother, if you take photos I will share with John your diaries from secondary school.”

“They’re not diaries,” Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft had still not turned around, but both John and Sherlock could imagine the arched eyebrow.

“John, mate,” Lestrade started, and John cut in.

“I won’t tell,” he reassured. “Even though everyone already knows.” He felt Sherlock’s grin from his side, and fought down one of his own.

They reached their seats in a moment. John attempted to place his feet in an area that was relatively dry, or at least not a puddle, as he sat down, hyper-aware of being too aware of Sherlock, who was inches next to him, folding his lankiness into the cramped space.

“Love is in the air,” said the man from the speakers, his voice more apt for a funeral.

A much-nicer looking lady emerged from the booth and made her way down the line, securing and fastening seat belts.

She approached their row with a casual “hello”, and reached for Sherlock’s restraints.

Sherlock immediately recoiled, the look of disgust clearly etched on his face.

“Why have you not washed your hands?” he demanded.

John raised his eyebrows and looked away as the poor girl let out a cross between a shout and a squeal, high-heeled shoes click-clacking away.

“Honestly,” Sherlock sniffed, “her fingernails—”

“Ah,” John interrupted, “I really don’t want to know.”

Sherlock smirked and, thankfully, didn’t continue.

A pleasant, lilting voice came through the speakers. “Please keep your hands and feet away from the edge of the rides.”

The seats rocked once, and then smoothly began their routine.

John surveyed the decor for about one second—cupids, doves, hearts, bright pink and reds, more hearts. He snuck a glance at Sherlock—his attention seemed snatched away by Mycroft and Lestrade.

There was some sappy slow song surrounding them. John crossed his legs and rested his chin on one hand, his elbow uncomfortably teetering on the side door, biting the inside of his cheek and determinedly looking in the opposite direction of the person sitting next to him.

There must be something wrong with him: irrationally attracted to danger, and, as he now realised, the word _attracted_ proved to be true in more ways than one.

If you asked him the exact moment when he knew, he wouldn’t be able to answer. There was no specific point in time when it happened, and one part of John suspected it might have been since the very beginning.

All he knew was, one day, he looked at Sherlock and the thought had entered his mind, and he found it unbearable to bat away. And, just like that—the paradigm shifted. And, once it was there, it would not back off.

It was because of this that, surely, John thought he must be blatantly obvious, but Sherlock did not, nor did he ever, comment on anything; but, honestly, truly, Sherlock must know. But whether he ignored it on purpose John wasn’t sure, and he couldn’t decide if he was grateful or irritated.

He must be a masochist, or at least some form of mad, because of all the people in the world, it just had to be Sherlock.

The boats gradually began tilting to the right, and John tried to act natural as his body slowly slid towards Sherlock and, bloody hell, he shouldn’t have to need to try to act natural, why was he being so weird about this, just don’t think about it, that’s it. Why on earth were the stupid seats so close together—hm. Well. They were, ostensibly, a couple riding the Love Boat. Christ.

John felt the hysterical giggle again.

The boat kept turning. And turning.

Seeing how the couples in front were all practically falling into each other’s laps, it was at this point that John realised it was purposeful. He tried to keep a scowl off his face as he very nonchalantly leaned the other way, turning his head and looking down as if there was something incredibly captivating about the water.

Sherlock’s eyes were still fixed on Mycroft when he spoke. “John, you should probably—”

The boat lurched in the opposite direction, sending all the pairs careening into each other with surprised laughs and giggles.

For a split second, John felt his hip pressing up against the side of the ride; he caught a glimpse of his seat belt, forgotten and dangling, and then he shouted, shot his arms out uselessly, and toppled over the edge of the boat.

It wasn’t a particularly chilly day, but the water sent a shock to his nerves and he shuddered underwater for a second, icy cold seeping into his skin. Then his feet kicked out, his arms reached for the air, and he pierced the surface, gasping and coughing, flinging water from his face.

Through unknown voices raising questions of concern he could hear someone laughing, and John looked up to see Sherlock doubled over. It was one of those laughs, spontaneous and loose and nearly impossible to draw from Sherlock, and John felt strangely proud of himself before he was reminded with what had just happened.

He tried to smother his smile as he paddled towards the boat, his clothes heavy and saturated, tugging him back.

“I tried to warn you,” Sherlock said as John grabbed the edge of the boat and hoisted himself up.

“No, you didn’t.” John sat back down, cringing at the feel of his wet clothes against the seat. “You would’ve spoken up earlier if you really wanted to.”

Sherlock grinned and John sighed, running a hand through his hair and flicking the water at Sherlock.

Lestrade was turned all the way around in his seat, with the expression that always seemed to make its way onto people’s faces when Sherlock and John were around. He looked extremely wry.

“You two just can’t follow the rules, can you?”

“So it’s my fault, too, now?” John said.

“Of course it is. Sherlock’s a fire, and you just fan the flames.”

“Indeed,” said Mycroft, face half turned, which John decided was an accomplishment. “You’re a bad influence, John.”

 _“Me?!”_ John made a bewildered laugh.

Mycroft hummed. “Poor Sherlock. He used to have it under control until you came along. It’s all over his head now.”

Sherlock opened his mouth. Mycroft looked at him coolly, and it was times like those when the family resemblance really shone. Mycroft, the only person who could always render Sherlock speechless.

Sherlock appeared shocked that someone had the audacity to be able to do so. A rogue curl of hair tumbled over his cheek.

John laughed, and, without thinking, reached out a hand and swept it back. “If only I could do that,” he said.

Sherlock did the equivalent of a double-take in speechlessness.

The unmistakable sounds of a fake shutter drew the four of them back to the ride.

In the end, the operators couldn’t seem to give less of a shit that John was dripping from head to toe.

The crowds filed out the door in a decidedly not orderly fashion, all scrambling out and clogging the exit in a way that reminded John of when Sherlock demonstrated the ineffectiveness of a company’s safety drills by setting fire to the curtains. John fell back and waited with Sherlock, hanging around until the crowd dispersed enough (which, by experience, would take quite a bit longer than it would for a pair of expensive embroidered curtains to burn into ashes.)

Rows and rows of display screens with over-saturated photos stood off to the side.

“Second column, third and fourth row,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft had his hands folded neatly in his lap, prim and proper, his mouth turned up in a smile that was barely there but somehow conveyed an unbelievable amount of smugness. Greg Lestrade was to the right, rolling his eyes, but the fondness was clear as day _._

Next was Sherlock, eyes wide, John’s hand tucking a curl behind his ear. All traces of the previous cynicism had dissolved away, replaced with some expression that made the parallel between the two rows strikingly clear—or at least to John, who expected himself to have blurred the lines between wishful thinking and reality by now.

“Are you—” John cleared his throat. “Are you buying any pictures?”

Sherlock scoffed. “Really, John,” he chided, and began to walk towards the doors, which were less congested by now.

“Taking that as a no,” John said, simultaneously feeling relieved and disappointed.

He took one step before he was suddenly stilled by a light touch on his shoulder.

“My brother,” murmured Mycroft’s voice in his ear. “Pray pay attention, John.”

John turned, but before he could respond, or even fully process the words, the other had disappeared.

-+-+-+-

The quiet fizzling of the deep fryer was accompanied by the clink of coins and the chatter of customers. John, who was only a little bit damp at this point, fidgeted on his feet, shifting his weight from one foot to another, glancing up at the line that, finally, after what must have been half an hour in the least, he was beginning to reach the front of.

He pulled out his phone and unlocked it with a random string of gibberish mixed numbers and letters that he had memorized by now (which he obtained after one of their pointless password feuds, in which John had locked Sherlock out of his phone for twenty-four hours, and Sherlock had changed John’s signature in his texts into _Sherlock is a genius,_ and “no” to autocorrect to “yes, of course, and you can do that experiment to me, too”.)

He scrolled through the pitifully-short list of contacts, tapping SH (a rare occasion; ofttimes it would be IGNORE or STUPID BLOODY WANKER. In John’s defense, he had realised that him on Sherlock’s phone once was, simply, “colleague”. He had never known the extent of Sherlock's pettiness.)

The latest text from the two of them was yesterday:  _I TOLD YOU, THE SAUCEPAN IS OFF LIMITS!!_ from John, Sherlock’s reply being: _Don’t be ridiculous. You never use it anyways._ (That didn’t mean he could use it to boil cow’s blood, thought John desperately.)

He shuffled closer in the line, and squinted through the sun at the chalkboard signs. Sherlock was right on one thing: the pricing was absolutely ridiculous.

He texted: _at front of line. where r u?_

Resisting himself from typing a JW at the end, John pressed _send_ , and watched Sherlock’s icon.

“Next!” someone shouted.

In the middle of ordering, his phone vibrated with a small beep.

_Kissing Booth. SH_

“Sir?”

“Hmm?” John blinked and looked around for no reason before his eyes settled on the cashier. “Oh. Sorry.” Feeling a bit dazed, John dug for a handful of change, which turned out to not be enough.

As the cashier found change for a twenty, John turned his attention back to his phone.

_didn’t know you liked that sort of thing_

He tapped the side of his phone S-H-E-R as he waited.

_Next to the tunnel of fear. Head towards the ferris wheel and turn right. SH_

John sighed and typed a quick _K,_ purposefully petty, very much used to the completely changed subject/ignored previous text/mind reading by now. Kissing booth, huh. Client or worker, now that was a question, and John furiously shoved away his imagination, which was beginning to creep into dangerous territories.

A couple minutes later, John had successfully acquired a strawberries and cream funnel cake. Trying not to topple over the towering pile of whipped cream, he navigated through the crowds, following Sherlock’s directions.

He was still wondering what in the world Sherlock would be doing at a kissing booth (most likely something about a case he guessed, but he couldn’t fathom how) when he arrived, and any path of thought he was following immediately crashed and burned up in a plume of fire.

Someone bumped into him and he mumbled an apology before hazily drifting off somewhere to the side.

John stared until the mountain of whipped cream over the funnel cake surrendered to the late summer sun and drooped over onto his hand.

He absentmindedly wiped his hand on his almost-dry pants, and then half-walked half-ran towards the kissing booth.

“Hey,” a girl protested, “no cutting.”

John ignored her, heading all the way up to the front of the line. He dropped the paper plate onto the desk beside the half-filled jar of tickets.

“Oh, hello John,” Sherlock said, and kissed a giggling teenager.

For a moment, John had a flashback to having his tea that morning. He wondered if Sherlock had drugged it.

“You’re manning the kissing booth,” John said.

“Obviously,” Sherlock said, folding a ticket in half and dropping it into the jar.

John wondered if his mouth was flapping like a fish out of water. _"You’re_ —” Sputtering, he waved his hands in the general direction of Sherlock.

Sherlock held up a hand to the next person in line, and turned to face John.

“I am administering the kissing booth, I have been for nine and a half minutes now, and will be for another five and a half, so stand and stare if you’d like, and have some funnel cake, would you?”

John scrambled to think of something coherent while Sherlock kissed the boy in line, which made it quite impossible to do so. Something in his mind was rearing up and burning, screaming for Sherlock to stop. A part of him wanted to grab Sherlock and haul him away.

Fighting down those curious and alarming urges, John came up with, “Is this legal?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “You’re worried that I’m breaking the law?”

John failed to stop a grin. “Right, well, forget that. Why?”

Sherlock paused in his reply to kiss the next person in line. John tried to gape and look away but failed, and then he tried not to stare and failed, too.

Turning back to John, Sherlock sniffed. “He was the lousiest street performer I’d ever seen. It wasn’t my fault he was so rubbish.”

“You ruined a performance, and you’re making it up by taking over a kissing booth,” John concluded.

“For fifteen minutes,” Sherlock added.

“Can I ever leave you alone for one second without you going off and… kissing people?” Hm, that sounded much better in his head.

“Of course you can.”

John dragged a hand down his face. “Of course I can.”

Sherlock hummed. John thought, _deep breaths,_ and very slowly took a bite of the funnel cake. It was slightly soggy and ridiculously sweet, with the barest hint of strawberries—actually quite nice, but John was too distracted to enjoy it to the full extent.

He stared at a particularly engrossing strawberry, because if he didn’t he’d be staring at something else, and that something else was something John absolutely did not want to see, absolutely not, oh dear god. If this was a dream, his subconsciousness was truly very mean.

And if this was reality, Sherlock was truly very mean.

John tore his eyes away from Sherlock, whom he had somehow reverted back to staring at while he was trying not to.

“Back again?” Sherlock said to a woman with dark braided hair, who giggled.

“I just can’t stop myself," she said, looking bold. "I’d like to take you out to dinner.”

 _Get away from him,_ John tried not to say.

“Not tonight, I’m afraid.” Sherlock hummed, and before the woman could say anything else, he took her face in his hands and drew her in.

 _Fuck,_ John thought, and spent the rest of the time trying to keep himself from decking the woman in the face.

“Sherlock,” John said afterwards, his voice terse and lower than normal.

Sherlock licked his bottom lip, indifferent. “John,” he acknowledged.

John didn’t know what to say through the mess of words scrambling his mind. _Are you trying to tell me something? Are you doing this on purpose? Do you know what this is doing to me? _Are you completely and utterly dense, or are you just a fucking tease?__

“I’m gonna go,” he mumbled.

“Suit yourself,” Sherlock responded.

John stumbled away, physically turning his back on Sherlock in case his eyes betrayed him and drifted back. Fumbling through his pockets, he pulled out the crumpled handful of tickets.

The tunnel of fear was just a couple steps away, and it was almost full, the people already settling down into their seats. _Oh, hell, why not?_

As he made his way towards the ride, a voice suddenly came from behind:

“John, I highly advise you not to go in there.”

Sherlock was not shouting, but somehow he had projected the words all the way over to John. John rolled his eyes, contemplating shouting back but eventually deciding not to. There were only a few tickets left; he placed all of them on the ledge and headed for one of the remaining seats.

Sherlock turned his head away from a girl, drew a ticket from the jar and handed it back to her, at the same time leaning close and saying something in her ear that made her turn bright red. She stomped away, and Sherlock ignored the rest of the queue as he ditched his post and headed straight towards the tunnel of fear. _Good,_ thought John, and then: _I’m so screwed._

The rails of the ride screeched. Grey plumes of smoke hissed and billowed from the entrance.

As John settled down in his seat, Sherlock appeared right beside him. “John, get off that ride right now.”

“I’m fine, Sherlock,” John said, still trying to delete what had just happened from his mind to save his sanity, which might’ve been gone already, now that he thought about it.

“Sir, I’m going to ask you to take a seat behind your partner there,” a woman shouted from the ticket booth. “Two tickets a person, he’s paid for you.”

“I didn’t—” John said, and then: “Sherlock, I’ve been in war, I’ve—I’ve been with you, for God’s sake. Whatever it is, I can handle it.”

Sherlock’s eyes took on just the smallest bit of hesitance. They darted from John, to the seat behind him, to the booth, scanned down the row of people all waiting for this interruption to finish so the ride could begin. A split second passed—and then Sherlock disappeared from view. There was a curt thanks from the woman.

The restraints rose up automatically. They pinned John down, his arms and legs bound, a bar across his chest, just on the side of too tight.

There was no warning as the cars suddenly lurched forward and plunged into darkness.

John rolled his shoulders and tried to make himself comfortable.

Well, he thought. At least he had brought Sherlock away from that kissing booth. _Christ_ , he was hopeless. He didn’t realise how much until now.

He was still thinking about it when the gunshot sounded.

A sharp, clear bang that whooshed a centimetre past his ear. John gasped as the lights went on, the sudden red light stinging his eyes.

The teenager sitting in front of him laughed loudly, said an obscenity to the writhing hologram to the side of the ride. “Ooh,” he said, _“Scary!”_

Two more shots whizzed through the air, so loud, so close. John flinched, and raised his hands to block his ears, but they were bound tight to the seat.

“Speakers,” Sherlock’s voice came through from where he sat behind him. “They’re speakers, John, on the seats, designed to mimic.”

John shut his eyes, hard. He took a deep shaky breath, and steeled himself.

It was a hologram— _not real._ Speakers, designed to mimic.

It worked for a couple of minutes.

As the hologram writhed and shot more bullets, a man—real, not a projection—came up behind the creature, some sort of futuristic weapon in his hand.

He went down with wide eyes, mouth stretched in horror, a red hole in his forehead streaming blood.

“No,” John hissed, taking quick breaths and counting them onetwothree. Not here. Not now.

But _bang_ past his ears, again and again, more people poured in, more holograms, more guns and more shots, and in a few seconds John was squirming in his bonds, twisting and pulling, eyes stinging and sore. Were the noises real, or his memories? He couldn’t tell, but his brain was screaming _out out out_ and he needed to get out, to freeze fight flee, he didn’t know and didn’t care, he just needed to get _out!_

The plastic turned to hot sand, grit and rough and burning, tainted with the scent of copper, both his and others and it didn’t matter, because where he was they were all the same. His shoulder screamed. His leg throbbed with phantom wounds.

The seat belt strained against his skin, this foggy calamity exploding in his ears, ringing and banging and shouting. In a strange burst of lucidity, the sensation reminded John of being back on the rollercoaster. Except this time there was no straightening out, no flat tracks after the fall, just down, down, down.

And then, in an instant, he was lifted.

The bars and belts were gone. His chest heaved with no resistance.

John paused for one second, and then he lunged out blindly.

Something grabbed him by the arm. John struggled, twisting wildly.

He was firmly pushed—no, _pulled,_ he registered dimly—back onto the seat. There was less space to sit this time, John’s legs wedged between the side of the ride and—something else. Hands on his shoulders tightened, shaking him.

A piercing scream came through the sound of bullets. John whimpered and shut his eyes tighter, and the shaking became harsher, harder— _"Open your eyes,”_ it demanded.

“John. Look at me, John, look.” The voice was urgent, commanding, and something about it made John obey.

Vision blurry, he latched onto a pair of blue-green-grey eyes.

Sherlock’s face was so close that it drew John slightly out of his muddled state. He spoke, just quick enough for John to have to focus in order to understand.

“John, wherever you thought you were—you’re _here._ You are with me, at this appalling excuse for a horror ride where the only redeeming quality is the realism of its gunshots. You are right here, at this abominable excuse for a carnival. You are in _London._ You are _here,_ with _me,_ John, not—there.”

John blinked. Sherlock was somehow slotted beside him, fitting both of them in a space meant for one person only.

“Sherlock,” John said.

Sherlock’s voice was low, with just a hint of a tremble: “Here.”

“Sherlock,” John repeated, unsure of whether it was in his head or out loud, but a murmured mantra, something to hold on to, tie himself and pull him back to reality.

Sherlock’s hand went from John’s shoulders to the back of John’s head where it lingered, a flicker of a touch, hesitant. For a moment his face showed uncertainty. For just a moment, both of their armour was gone, the defense down, briefly broken.

“You’re okay,” Sherlock said, and there was something about that, not _you’re fine_ or _alright_ but _okay,_ so quietly, almost a whisper, that it made John unwind.

His eyelids fluttered. He made a small noise and dropped his head. His arms seeked comfort and found them in Sherlock, who didn’t move at first, but in a millisecond drew John close and held him tight.

“Sorry,” John mumbled.

“It’s okay.” Sherlock’s head was a warm weight on John’s. A heartbeat fluttered in his chest, steady and constant, curiously quick, and although John didn’t notice this then, he would remember it after.

John know that he should pull away before Sherlock got his mind back in order, because Sherlock scoffed at hugs and physical displays of affection, Sherlock was straightforward and calculating and wouldn’t want this.

But Sherlock also played soft violin lullabies at two am when John couldn’t sleep, he consoled him after breakups by whirling them into a case of eccentrics and energy, he walked away from a mystery even John was piqued by because John had not slept in twenty-four hours and refused to leave without Sherlock.

So John remained in their embrace, his arms around Sherlock and drawing him closer; his head rested against his chest. In that moment, John had a fleeting thought that, for someone who seemed, always, so _cold,_ Sherlock was so warm.

Their moment was interrupted as a chorus of screams rose from the crowd.

John sighed and turned his head to see a bloody, mangled head dangling down near the exit of the ride.

He glanced down at their legs, nearly tangled together in this confined space. “Won’t somebody mind?”

Sherlock hummed and gently withdrew himself from their hug. John tried not to let it show how much he missed it already.

“A man once murdered a woman during a ride similar to this one. No one even noticed until the janitor found the blood stains underneath the tracks.”

John frowned. “In a shoddy, run-down fair, maybe.”

“Two of the workers here had sex in the fortune telling tent this morning.”

“Ah. Ok.”

No one did seem to mind nor notice as they exited the rides and walked out, not knowing where to, just following the general stream of people.

Sherlock continued, “The woman working at this ride has a student card in her back pocket, dark eye bags, consistent yawning with an extra large cup of coffee; she’s in university, trying to earn some extra money. I don’t think she’d particularly mind either, no.”

“Show off,” said John, and then, feeling particularly bold: “Don’t you have some more kissing to do?”

“Not really. They were all terrible kissers.”

John laughed softly. “Mm? Didn’t know you were the expert here. Thought sentiment wasn’t your area?”

“Sentiment, romantic attachments are not my area; anything not emotional is purely movement.”

“Movement.” John hummed. “You know I don’t believe you.”

Sherlock turned, piqued.

“When you say things about emotions and ‘not your area’. That’s bollocks.”

“How are you so sure?” Sherlock said.

John thought about how to put this into words without laying himself bare.

“I know you,” he started slowly, deliberately. “I know you’re not… whatever some people think you are. You do care, and you care a lot—about very particular things. I... I think you’re afraid.” Now that the words were out, the rest followed, spilling past his lips. “You think caring is a weakness. But, Sherlock, you have to realise.” He wasn’t thinking now, the words were just pouring out. “The people you truly care about—they don’t bring you down, they build you up. And when you love someone like that, it makes you feel stronger than you’ll ever be without him.”

 _Shit!_ He stopped speaking, telling himself to stay silent now, because if he kept talking God knows what would come out of his traitorous lips.

He looked over to see that Sherlock was staring, the intensity turned up to the point where it felt like a hot breeze was sweeping over his skin.

John licked his lips. Seconds passed, increasingly uncomfortable. The air tingled.

It got to a point where John was debating whether or not to actually tell him. Which was ridiculous, and he really hoped Sherlock would say something now, because he didn’t know how much longer he could take.

“Let’s go to the lake,” Sherlock said after a millennia.

“What?” John blinked. “Oh. Okay.”

“We’ll be just in time to see the sunset,” Sherlock said, and with that he began walking away.

John watched Sherlock for a moment, and then followed absently.

If Sherlock still didn’t see it—well.

He knew something was up, at least that much was true. With his moody silences and electric looks, Sherlock was waiting for John to do something—what, John didn’t know, and he had a nagging feeling that he was running out of time.

-+-+-+-

The bench was just narrow enough that the side of Sherlock's leg pressed up against his. John tried not to think about it too much.

He turned his face to the sky and closed his eyes. The feeble warmth of the fading summer sun bathed over him, accompanied with a swaying autumn breeze. On the lake, two swans squawked as they swam.

John said, “Remember when—”

Sherlock was already smiling. “They are surprisingly agile.”

“Huge tempered pricks, too.”

“Ruined my dressing gown.”

John laughed. He leaned down and picked up a small, flat pebble. _Twenty degrees, wrist flick, smooth and sharp_.

It skipped, casting three growing rings of ripples before sinking.

Another came almost immediately after. Not sent by him, it sliced through the air and then skimmed the water one, two, three, four, five.

John didn’t need to say anything for Sherlock to understand the look he gave him _._

The sun hit the waterline, sparkling over the lake. The sky was soft orange and pinks, vermillion-edged clouds stretching across the horizon.

The scent of frying dough and candy floss floated in, carried by the wind. A song came with it, slow and sweet.

John kept his eyes on the shimmering water as he spoke.

“It’s nice, isn’t it? This.” He haphazardly waved a hand around them. “See? You can have fun. You can go to a fair and do normal things like a normal person. It doesn’t have to be boring.”

“It’s not,” Sherlock said, very quietly, and John could feel his eyes burning into him, like fire ants crawling up his neck, and he resisted for two seconds before looking back.

“No?” John replied, words escaping without his consent, his thoughts sent skittering from Sherlock’s gaze.

“Not when it’s with you.”

Oh.

Surely, _surely._

“Really?” John said, trying to sound casual when his stomach felt like it was flipping inside out. “Good. That’s good.”

It wasn't fair. He shouldn’t feel like this. He shouldn’t feel starved for the barest brushing of their shoulders as Sherlock shifted around, it shouldn’t feel like pinpricks of lightning were shooting down his nerves. He shouldn't be thinking these verboten thoughts that were flashing through his mind. But here they were.

It was beginning to feel suffocating, keeping it all in. He felt as if he would burst soon.

John looked away, the blinding glitter of the water easier to bear than Sherlock’s eyes.

“We ought to go home.”

Sherlock didn’t respond.

“It’ll get dark soon,” John added.

Another silence, this one stretching nearly as far as the last and twice as unbearable.

This time, when Sherlock did speak, it was like he had suddenly switched to fast-forward mode, changing his intonation from casually quick to holy-hell-what-the-shit rapid-fire.

“The funnel cake left at the kissing booth was taken by seagulls. Did you know that I can identify eight specific types of gulls by their down feathers? European Herring Gull, a second-year bird; light brown and mottled grey. Also, I was offered six times to have funnel cake with five different people in the span of nine-and-a-half minutes. Goes to show that being a good kisser is actually quite useful. Perhaps I could teach you some time.”

Sherlock stood up, turned on his heels, and dashed away, his face with more colour than normal.

John watched Sherlock run, walk, slow to a stroll down to the roads.

John said, “Would it save you a lot of time if I just gave up and went mad now?”

Sherlock, who was about two hundred metres from John by now, did not respond.

Maybe he was already mad. Maybe Sherlock had finally led John to his inevitable insanity.

But then again, John thought as he entered the back seats of a cab, as they bumped shoulders through the London traffic—what’s life without a little bit of madness?

-+-+-+-

“Dinner? Angelo has a new crème brûlée.” Sherlock said.

John made a vaguely interested noise, too dazed and disoriented in his own thoughts to respond accurately.

“Matcha. Could be enjoyable.”

John made another noise, this time with a lean towards affirmation.

“Alright,” Sherlock said. “I need to check on an experiment and then we’ll go out.”

Really not knowing anymore if that wording was on purpose or not or if all of this and others and more were just John’s sporadic overthinking and over complication of everything, or if he was quite simply too engrossed with the question of what he was going to do now that his infatuation with Sherlock had grown so out of hand, John watched Sherlock ascend the stairs until he reached the top step, and then summoned all the courage he had gathered up from the ride home.

“Wait,” he said.

Sherlock stopped.

John froze. Apparently, that was as far all his thinking got him to.

Oh, hell, he was going to faint, soon, if his pulse decided to keep up with its current tempo.

He slowly climbed the stairs until he was three steps away from the other, frantically trying to generate more courage in the process. “I have to tell you something,” he managed to say.

Sherlock didn’t move nor speak. John opened his mouth—and a torrent of coughs bubbled out.

Through the hacking and choking, John thought he heard Sherlock groan.

“Jesus, sorry, I—” John cleared his throat and opened his mouth to find that his mind-to-mouth filter had been displaced, and that he was suddenly unable to swallow down the amalgam of words that desperately clawed its way up his throat.

“You, you said at dinner, the first one I mean, at Angelo's, you said you weren’t—you didn’t want—well, _things,_ yeah? But I… what I’m trying to say is… I mean, today, at the fair, you—everything that happened, and what I said about caring, and—when you were at the kissing booth, I felt as if—I think you, I think I—”

He stopped with a little croak, his tongue a useless wad in his mouth and his face on fire, his throat sandy and rough.

It took a couple of seconds for John to descend from his internal pandemonium, and to realise that Sherlock had not moved a single centimetre throughout the entirety of his spilled-ink mess of a confession.

“Um.” John hesitated before daring to take another step of the stairs.

“You said you had to tell me something,” Sherlock said, sounding a bit strained. “What is it, John? _Say it!”_

“Oh, well, I…” The burst of ambition winked out of him like a dying lightbulb. “Nevermind.” John took a step down, literally and metaphorically.

“The fair was fun. I liked it.” He nodded, even though Sherlock couldn’t see. “It was rather nice, quite fun.” He could stop talking now. “I’m sorry for… you know. During the horror ride. You tried to warn me.” _Seriously, stop._ “It was okay, though. You were there. You helped me through it.” What was wrong with him? “It’s all fine.”

For a period of time that John didn’t know the duration of because he was at the moment completely baffled by his own words, the two of them stood in a tension so thick he could probably reach out and grab a handful. If he fell over right there, it would probably break his fall like molasses. It would be a good thing, too, because John wasn’t quite sure he was so steady. Maybe that was why it was so hard to breathe all of a sudden. Or maybe that was just the sirens blaring in his mind, screaming that he had just done the Ultimate Fuck-Up. Any would fit.

The string connecting Sherlock and John, pulled taut with the strain of everything they were not saying, suddenly released—or maybe it snapped.

Sherlock opened the door and walked into their flat.

There was something about the way he walked, a slower, narrower gait perhaps, stiffer; or maybe it was just intuition, an intrinsic subconsciousness that prickled in the back of his mind; or really it could have just been John’s wishful thinking, exponentially amplified with the frustration of all that had happened—but in the time it took for Sherlock to take another step, John was absolutely, positively, cross-his-heart certain, that Sherlock knew everything.

“You _prat,”_ he whispered, and in one single step he hoisted himself up the remaining steps. “Buggering arse.”

Sherlock turned in an instant, his face in a split second lighting up, and that was the final proof.

The scenes skipped, flicking through clips. John remembered running, grabbing Sherlock by the neck of his shirt and colliding into him full force, tackling him to the floor, already catching him in a clumsy kiss; a giddy, hysterical laugh and a hand against his back, drawing him in; a thud, and then Sherlock was hauling them both up and over to the wall.

They spared no time for words—although there were a thousand of them all fighting to be spoken, John pushed them all down in favour of snogging Sherlock senseless, as well as himself in the process.

Somewhere in the corner of his mind he wondered if he should be worried by the fact that he felt like he was on fire, and that his pulse _must_ be higher than what was safe. But those thoughts were wholly overthrown.

John couldn’t think, he didn’t think, he wanted this for _so long,_ he didn’t realise how much he wanted this until now, and it only made the craving stronger. Sherlock kissed like how he solved a case: determined and efficient but fervent, urgent; Sherlock kissed like a command. He grabbed John’s face in his hands and crowded him against the wall.

Sherlock kissed him and John kissed Sherlock back until he was dizzy, heady with euphoria, but there was no stopping. Sensations sparkled and burst in his mind, lips and fingers and skin. Hands in his hair, sliding down his back, cupping his face to tilt his head.

How long, John had no clue, but it was not nearly long enough.

Sherlock drew back, his hair a mess, eyes dark and desperate. John imagined he must look the same; perhaps more.

They looked at each other, and, slowly, slowly, John regained his muddled thoughts.

“You _knew,”_ John said.

“Of course,” Sherlock said, sounding out-of-breath. He leaned in to touch their foreheads together. “Honestly, John,” he sighed, “I had almost given up. So close, every single time. Do you know how hard it was not to just kiss you?”

John tilted his head up to meet Sherlock’s lips, and mumbled, “Buggering arse.”

“Heard you the first time.”

“The Kissing Booth—”

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock said. “That was fun.”

“You bloody tease,” John said in amazement.

Sherlock grinned.

You planned this,” John said, not really asking.

“Not the panic attack.” Suddenly Sherlock was serious. “I underestimated the length of your trauma. I’m sorry.”

John retreated slightly to take Sherlock’s face in his hands, and ran his thumbs over his cheekbones. “Well,” he said, “I guess you’ll just have to be with me all the time, then.”

Sherlock smirked. “I already am.”

“Arrogant twit.” John left kisses all over Sherlock’s face, his cheeks and his forehead, ducking down to plant one on the tip of his nose, talking in between. “I can’t believe this. I can’t bloody believe it. How long, Sherlock? How long?”

“Angelo’s,” Sherlock said, trying to meet John’s kisses with his lips.

John drew back, frowning slightly. “When?”

Sherlock had the decency to look at least a bit abashed. “The first time.”

“Oh you—you—”

“Yoo-hoo!”

A soft pittering of steps, muffled by slippers, came near.

“Boys?”

“Mrs. Hudson,” John said, not knowing if he was talking to himself, Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, or all three.

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock took up, “I would prefer if neither you nor anyone else come up here for the rest of tonight.”

John was torn between being horrified and amused.

“Hmm? Oh—oh!” There was a quick little choke-cough. “Of course, dear. Have a good night.”

John said, “Erugh,” right as Sherlock said, “We will.”

There was another patter of steps, this time faster and with a bit more… bounce.

John made a hopeless noise with his throat. He stayed in this condition for a moment, looking at Sherlock, who had the audacity to look _pleased,_ and then John broke into laughter so loud that Sherlock’s look quickly turned into one of alarm.

“John,” said a bewildered Sherlock.

John kept laughing, trying to get a hold of himself because one madman was enough for both of them, but he couldn’t tell who the one person was anymore, and that just made him more hysterical, and he snickered and giggled through peals of laughter until he hiccoughed.

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry,” John said near the end. He brushed a curl from Sherlock’s face. “I guess that crème brûlée will have to wait.”

Sherlock ran his thumb across John’s nose, which was equally strange and endearing, which was very fitting. “Tuesday,” he said. “Anniversary.”

John furrowed his eyebrows. Hm. It was their anniversary. And Sherlock remembered before John. And he said sentiment wasn't his area.

“I thought you said that time is completely arbitrary and also that celebrating milestones is a complete waste of it?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Not to Angelo. He bought a special shipment of vanilla beans from Madagascar.”

“What? Oh—so—oh, okay—” John shook his head. “When you say you planned all this, exactly how much did you plan?”

“Not much,” Sherlock said. “It was not particularly concrete, merely an outline, a foundation to build upon depending on the circumstances that arose.”

John raised his eyebrows at this mishmash of words. “Well. Aren’t you clever?”

Sherlock said, “I am so clever that sometimes I do not understand a single word of what I’m saying.”

John laughed, and, in a burst of affection, he leaned over and kissed Sherlock’s forehead. Now that Sherlock had straightened up, John needed to stand on his tiptoes to reach, and even then it was more like a kiss on the bridge of his nose. Sherlock ducked his head lower and met John on the lips.

Rock music floated up from below. Mrs. Hudson.

Bless her, thought John.

“Who?” John said. “Who knew?”

“Suspected,” Sherlock corrected, and then: “Mycroft, as you’ve undoubtedly noticed, was utterly intolerable. Lestrade approached me after the ride and hinted that I should ‘make a move’ by tonight in order for him to win the pools. Irene’s texted me seventeen times throughout the course of this day.” John frowned. “She told me to ‘act sexy’, which is ridiculous.”

John waited. Sherlock gave him an indefinitely crooked cheshire grin.

“Because it’s not an act.”

John sighed. “You never grew out of your teenager phase, did you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock dismissed, which was his usual response for anything he didn’t have a comeback for.

John curled a lock of Sherlock’s hair around his finger and tucked it back behind his ear. His mind had yet to catch up with what had happened, and now he just looked at Sherlock silently, marvelling.

“I love you,” John said, surprising himself.

He expected Sherlock to smirk, roll his eyes, maybe respond with a coy little _I know._

Sherlock bit his lip—actually bit his lip—and offered a smile. One that, for once, wasn’t laced with cynicism nor malice nor mock. It was small and nervous and painfully genuine, and it tugged John’s stomach harder than anything ever could.

“I hope I deserve it,” was what Sherlock actually said, quiet and sincere.

John ran a hand through Sherlock’s hair and took Sherlock’s hand with the other. “You deserve everything you have and more,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss him once more.

This one was sweeter, softer, now that they’ve gotten over the initial frantic frenzy. They took their time, and, slowly, again, all the thoughts in John’s head winked out, one by one, until Sherlock was the only thing on his mind.

Sherlock was eccentric and outlandish, remarkable and _wonderful,_ and he loved John, and John loved him back so much it was beginning to hurt, a twisting ache in his chest, a strange sense of nostalgia. How had he managed to live his life with Sherlock by his side for so long without this?

John loved him, and he said it again afterwards.

This time, Sherlock responded with, “I love you too,” and bumped their noses together.

John felt that astonishment again, at the same time as his heart melted into a pool of honey. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to this.

Sherlock’s eyes were warm and soft, affection drawn all across his face in a look that John couldn’t help but find familiar.

It’s been there all along, he realised.

-+-+-+-

They were nestled together on the sofa. John’s head was filled with the pleasant buzz of endorphins, and if he asked, he was sure Sherlock could name all of them.

He shifted so that his head was against Sherlock’s chest. He smelled like expensive conditioner, wood smoke, and something vaguely chemical that reminded him of St. Barts.

Sherlock’s arms tightened around him, and he pressed a kiss to John’s hair. “I wanted this for so long,” he murmured.

“How long?”

“Since the very beginning, John. I cared about you more than anything.”

“And you didn’t think about telling me that? Why keep it from me, if you knew I felt the same?”

“You were right: I was afraid. I loved you so much it scared me.”

“But not now?”

“I had some advice,” Sherlock admitted. “Molly, Lestrade. Others.”

John said, “Oh, right. Basically, everyone knew except for me.”

“Basically.”

“Shit,” John said, “I _am_ an idiot.”

Sherlock smiled. “Complete imbecile.”

John couldn’t help it but say, “But you love me.”

Sherlock hummed. “Fair enough.”

“Oh, my God.” John giggled, and pulled Sherlock in for another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Posting this after NaNoWriMo, which was absolute torture (but fun). Hope you enjoyed!  
>  _"Would it save you a lot of time if I just gave up and went mad now?"_ and _"I am so clever that sometimes I do not understand a word of what I am saying"_ are **quotes** , not my own!


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